


The First United Church of Mondays

by madelinescribbles



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Donut lives for attention, Gen, Grif starts a cult!, RvB Secret Santa, bet fic, between seasons 5 and 6, it's shippy if you want it to be, y'know that weird frenemy phase between tex's death and reassignments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 10:46:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13165284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madelinescribbles/pseuds/madelinescribbles
Summary: Grif takes an argument way too far - and starts a cult worshipping popular lasagna cat, Garfield.





	The First United Church of Mondays

**Author's Note:**

> Secret Santa gift for rvb-clusterfuck on tumblr! Sorry it's probably the last thing you expected, but i hope the absurdity makes you laugh!

“ _Garfield_.” Grif said, grinning.

 

“ _Garfield_ ,” Simmons repeated sarcastically, “The lasagna cat.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“No.”

 

“What? Why not!”

 

“Wha-pff-shh- It’s _Garfield_! The _lasagna cat_!”

 

“You got a problem with my lasagna cat? He’ll kick your ass!”

 

“Shut up, Grif! No.”

 

“But _why not_!”

 

“You can’t seriously believe Garfield is the best Sunday comic. _Peanuts_ beats _Garfield,_ tenfold!”

 

“No way! _Peanuts_ is bullshit. No one’s childhood was ever that interesting –“

 

“You grew up in a circus!”

 

“–but have you ever hated a Monday? That’s relatable content.”

 

Simmons sighed.

 

Grif wasn’t giving in on this one. Simmons had won best super hero (fucking Squirrel Girl technicalities), best sci-fi series (Battlestar Galactica, duh, because Grif made the mistake of trying to devil’s advocate for Science Mystery Theater), and best underrated kitchen utensil (colander spoon). Grif was on a losing streak, and like hell was he going to give Simmons four in one morning. The dude already had a big head, this would turn him into MODOK.

 

“No rebuttal? So I win.” Grif concluded.

 

“I don’t need to give a rebuttal! It’s Garfield! He’s a joke!”

 

“Well, yeah, smartass, it’s a Sunday comic strip. If it wasn’t a joke that’d be a problem.”

 

Simmons sputtered for a few moments before finding his words, “You know what I mean! Just admit it, I won this one too.”

 

“Ohhh hohoho! Hell no. You’re getting a little too high and mighty there, Simmons. You didn’t even give a valid argument. Meanwhile I already told you that _Garfield_ is hilarious and relatable. You lose.”

 

“No. No way! I refuse to let _Garfield_ claim the title of best Sunday comic. _Family Circus_ would be a better pick than _Garfield_!”

 

Grif narrowed his eyes.

 

“What if I got someone to back me up on this. Then will you admit defeat?”

 

“Grif, I don’t care if you get an entire congregation to back you up on this. There’s no way.”

 

Grif cocked his head to the side for a moment, considering.

 

“But what if I did.”

 

Simmons blinked in confusion.

 

“What?”

 

“If I got together an entire congregation of people who agreed that Garfield was the ultimate Sunday comic strip, then would I win?”

 

“Where would you get a congregation in-”

 

“Answer the damn question.”

 

“You know what? Yeah. If you, Grif, the most hated person in the red army, managed to find enough people in this fucking canyon to form a congregation that agrees with you? I’ll admit that Garfield is a good Sunday comic strip.”

 

“Uh uh uh! Not good. The best. And you have to say it on your knees, in the middle of the canyon so the blues can witness it too.”

 

Simmons scowled.

 

“Fine! But you’ll never do it.”

 

Grif grinned and extended his hand to shake.

 

“Oh Simmons, how gravely you underestimate my abilities.”

 

* * *

 

 

Grif had to admit. Starting a congregation was a lot more work than he thought.

 

After about an hour of bartering, he managed to lure his sister into the tunnels under the bases and into one of the folding chairs he’d set up in rows. It looked more like an alcoholics’ anonymous meeting than a church, especially considering the people in attendance, but whatever.

 

“Why the hell are you starting a cult to worship Garfield?” Sister asked before he had a chance to explain himself.

 

“It’s a long story, but for the most part it’s about a bet with Simmons.”

 

“Ohhhh. I see what’s going on here. What’s on the line? How sexy is it?”

 

“Ew! Gross! No! Not like that. He just has to get down on his knees-”

 

“Hot!”

 

“-AND ADMIT THAT I WAS RIGHT! Jesus, Kai, what’s wrong with you?”

 

“I mean, I’m joining a cult to worship Garfield, so probably a lot.”

 

“Hey hey hey, dudette and duderino!” A new voice joined the conversation from across the cave, “Did my simulated robo-ears deceive me, or did I hear you’re starting a cult for my per-son-ale lord and savior, President Jimmy-Jam A. Garfield?”

 

Um. Okay.

 

“Nah, it’s Garfield the lasagn-“

 

“YES!” Grif cut his sister off before she could drive away the only other potential member of his congregation, “That’s definitely what this is! Best president who ever lived, that Garfield. You want in?”

 

“Hell yeah, compadre! Vic is allll in!”

 

“Bro, what the fuck,” Kai whispered.

 

“Shut up and play along,” Grif hissed back, “This is the third most unlikely coincidence I have ever experienced and I am _not_ taking it for granted.”

 

The two dragged their folding chairs over to Vic’s console, where he glitched excitedly on the screen above them.

 

“Oh ho ho HOO! I cannot WAIT to finally meet up with some other Garfield enthusiasts! I’ve been alone for so long! I’m so glad Garfieldology is finally spreading after all my years spent going door to door evangelizing.”

 

“Aren’t you a computer?” Sister asked.

 

“Yeah?” Vic sounded genuinely confused at the question.

 

“So how did you go-”

 

“Alright!” Grif interrupted, earning a death glare from Kai, “Well I’m gonna start off this meeting by letting our new member, Vic, know what we’re all about here in the First United Church of Mondays.”

 

“I thought Garfield hated Mondays,” Sister commented. Grif continued on as if she hadn’t spoken.

 

“See, Vic, we’re a slightly different sect of Garfield…ism-?”

 

“Garfieldology,” Vic corrected.

 

“Right, right, Garfieldology. We’re a slightly different sect than what you might be used to. Same core tenets, a few different practices. You get it, right?”

 

“Say no more my dude, I have a ‘Coexist’ bumper sticker.”

 

“Great! Great. So I just ask that you go along with our meetings for the first few days. Get a feel for what might be different. And if something seems off? Just don’t worry about it. It’s a new practice and we can talk about it at a later date. Sound good?”

 

Vic shrugged (in his own weird computer-interface way).

 

“That doesn’t sound suspicious to me at all! Sure!”

 

“Awesome! Fabulous. This is already going a lot better than I thought,” Grif said.

 

“I agree,” said Caboose.

 

“Whatever you say,” Sister grumbled.

 

Grif didn’t let her get to him. After all, Simmons didn’t-

 

Wait.

 

Caboose?

 

Grif did a double take.

 

Sure enough, Caboose was sitting in a folding chair next to Kai, twiddling his thumbs and staring at him placidly as if he’d been there the whole time.

 

“Caboose? Where the hell did you come from?” Grif asked.

 

“Oh, you know, when a mommy and a daddy-“

 

“No, like, why are you in the tunnels?”

 

“Well Green Church told me not to follow her so I waited until-”

 

“Actually, you know what?” Grif cut him off, “I don’t care. You joining this cult or what?”

 

“As long as it’s not raspberry-flavored.”

 

“That’s a yes!” Grif announced.

 

Things were coming together… surprisingly well. He already had three members – four, counting himself. That was like a quarter of the canyon’s population. He was already more popular ratio-wise than the Mormons. Simmons was going to eat his own shit by the time Grif was done.

 

* * *

  

Simmons was getting nervous.

 

He hadn’t really expected Grif to actually put in the effort to create a following, but apparently the fatass showed initiative for the first time in his entire life over the fucking _lasagna cat_.

 

There had to be some kind of irony in the worlds laziest orange fatass overcoming his laziness to organize a cult worshipping _fiction’s_ laziest orange fatass.

 

But Simmons lost the privilege to determine what was an wasn’t ironic last week after the Great Irony Debate.

 

It didn’t matter. Simmons was nervous, because this morning while he was working on his scale model of the Starship Enterprise, he was visited by Donut.

 

That by itself was enough to kill Simmon’s entire week, but it was what Donut wanted to talk about that made it even worse.

 

“Heyyyy Simmons,” Donut called, draping himself against the doorframe of Grif and Simmons’ barracks.

 

“Go away, Donut.”

 

“Normally I’d give a man this hard what he wants, but I need something from you first.”

 

Simmons groaned.

 

“I came to ask,” Donut continued without acknowledging Simmons’ visceral discomfort, “If I can get in on the ground floor, so to speak.”

 

Simmons stared blankly.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Donut sighed and stood upright, hand motions becoming more vivid as he clarified.

 

“You know! The cult! I want in. I can bring another pledge too if you’re doing this by sorority rules.”

 

Simmons was taken aback. It had been a day since his wager with Grif, but since they struck a deal, the fatass had been notably busy. It still didn’t make sense that _Donut_ knew about it, though. Grif would sooner give up a week’s supply of Oreos than initiate a conversation with Donut. Even if it meant winning a bet.

 

“How do you know about the cult?” Simmons asked suspiciously.

 

“Wine and cheese hour, of course!” Donut said happily, like that explained it all.

 

“Yeah but who-“

 

“Listen, buster, if you want all the details, RSVP for tomorrow. I’m on a mission right now. Can I join the cult or not?”

 

“Wha-? Why are you asking me?” Simmons’ voice cracked a bit, “Grif’s the one putting it all together!”

 

Donut looked confused.

 

“I just assumed you would be running it with him. You two always hang out together. And no offense, but I figured you’d be handling the accounting side of things, since Grif hasn’t paid taxes in years, so there’s no way he’d know how to handle non-profit deductibles.”

 

“Right… What?”

 

“Never mind, I’ll just do it myself. Do you know where he is?”

 

“Why should I know! I’m against this! Why do you want to worship _Garfield_ anyway?”

 

Donut laughed and Simmons couldn’t help but feel like it was a little patronizing.

 

“Oh Simmons, this is much bigger than you think it is,” Donut whispered ominously, his eyes going cold. Simmons felt a chill run down his spine.

 

He blinked and Donut’s demeanor was back to annoyingly chipper. Hell, he couldn’t even be sure he didn’t just hallucinate that creepy foreshadowing.

 

“Ciao!” Donut gave a cheerful wave and headed back down the hall. Simmons shuddered and forced himself to return to his model.

 

This wasn’t looking good for him.

 

* * *

 

 

This was looking great for him!

 

Grif already had three members under his belt, and was in the middle of teaching them the “sacred oath” when Donut showed up.

 

“Let’s try this again, Caboose: ‘Garfield is the best Sunday comic strip.’”

 

“Spiderman is the best weekend obituary.”

 

“At least you got the word ‘best’ this time,” Sister noted.

 

“Well _hi_ guys!” Donut’s voice dripping with sweetness as he approached the congregation.

 

“Donut? What the fuck are you doing here?” Grif asked.

 

“To join the cult, silly!” Donut cooed, making himself comfortable in an extra folding chair, “I simply can’t stand being the last one to hop on a trend, and hive-mind sects are all the rage in Paris these days!”

 

Grif was still beyond confused, but like hell was he going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He had an extra member for his congregation. Eat it, Simmons.

 

“Whatever, man. Welcome to the First United Church of Mondays, I guess.”

 

“Excellent!” Donut clapped his hands together gently, “What are we doing now, then?”

 

“Uh, mostly just trying to teach Caboose the oath. He got three words right last time.”

 

Donut frowned.

 

“That’s it?” he sounded disappointed.

 

“You got a problem with it, fruitcake?” Kai asked.

 

Donut sighed loudly.

 

“It’s just, the way Miranda Priestly and Autoreau Vitale described it in _Runway_ , I thought there’d be more… y’know, rituals? Sacrificial offerings, chanting circles, orphic readings? Things you can wear their Modern OccultÔ line to.”

 

Grif raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

 

“Hey, now that’s a good point, my dude,” Vic chimed in, “None of this is as cult-y as I remember.”

 

“You know what?” Grif asked, “Fine. You want occult readings?”

 

On his HUD he pulled up Garfield.com in Safari.

 

“A reading from the book of Jim Davis:” he declared dramatically.

 

“Ok so panel one is Jon and Garfield at a table. Jon says ‘I heard a funny joke today’ while Garfield is, uh, well he just kinda looks like he doesn’t give a fuck. The next panel Jon says ‘But I don’t remember the punchline,’ and Garfield still looks fuck-less. In the last panel Jon says ‘Oh well, “Knock knock”’ and Garfield still looks done but he holds up a finger and a thought bubble above him says ‘Don’t.’”

 

There was an awkward silence in the cave. Grif, much like Garfield in the comic he just read, didn’t give a fuck.

 

“The word of the Lord,” Grif finished and slumped back into his chair to continue teaching Caboose the “oath.”

 

But he didn’t get to open his mouth before Donut was on his feet, pacing in front of everyone’s chairs.

 

“What an excellent reading!” he exclaimed, “This one clearly demonstrates how we must learn to think before we speak, while at the same time acknowledging the divine wisdom of Garfield, our Omnipotent Lord.”

 

This time the silence was more confused than awkward.

 

“…What the fuck.” Sister finally broke it.

 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Donut asked condescendingly.

 

“No.” Caboose said.

 

“Well then I’ll explain it!” Donut said cheerfully, “See in panel two, Jon reveals to Garfield that the punchline for the joke he had heard that day has slipped his mind, yet he attempts to tell it anyway. Garfield, realizing that this line of conversation is pointless, stops him before he can talk himself into a corner. We can learn from Jon’s example-”

 

Grif has literally no idea what’s going on.

 

He started this club as a way to win a bet with Simmons, and now Donut paced in front of him giving a sermon about Garfield, popular lasagna cat’s, teachings on the deadly sin of pride. It was eerily passionate too. Donuts hands were flying and he spoke with the kind of fire and brimstone Grif saw on the Christian network when channel surfing at 2 am.

 

He turned to the people beside him, and sure enough, Caboose, Vic, hell, even Kai were enraptured with Donut’s homily. _About the lasagna cat_.

 

It was creepy as fuck.

 

Donut finished his preaching, and immediately the two idiots next to him stood up and applauded, Caboose shouting excitedly and Kai letting out a wolf whistle. Vic couldn’t physically clap, but was whooping from the speakers behind them. The grin on Donut’s face could have been described as “wolfish.”

 

Grif wasn’t sure what to do, but felt oddly pressured to clap along, slightly nervous about what Donut would do to him if he didn’t.

 

And that was when Grif realized (with no small amount of fear), that he may have created a cult in name, but it was Donut who dished out the kool-aid. 

 

* * *

 

 

Word about the First United Church of Mondays was spreading fast, and Grif decided he was going to have to drag Simmons to a meeting soon, oath or not, or he was going to find himself in a heap of shit.

 

Since Donut’s first homily, both Lopez and Doc have joined the ranks, meaning that fucking _Garfield_ was now the official religion of over half the canyon. To make it even worse, Donut started conducting entire ceremonies centered around Grif reading the comic of the day off the website, and today he even brought food to have “refreshments in the vestibule after the ceremony.” Big things were happening very fast, and Grif may be fat but he’s smart enough not to touch any food at a cult meeting with a thirty-foot pole.

 

Today though, Grif knew it was bad when _Tucker_ came to him about joining.

 

“Cults have orgies, right? I want in.”

 

Behind him, Grif could hear Donut and the others jabbering while constructing something in a cartoonishly loud fashion, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn around and look at it. The best he could do is turn Tucker away before Jonestown got a member with a fucking prophecy light saber.

 

“Tucker, dude. I appreciate the enthusiasm, but this is a cult worshipping Garfield, popular lasagna cat. I don’t think you’re going to find anyone down to fuck. It’s mostly just me reading a random strip off the website and Donut getting everyone way too excited.”

 

Tucker narrowed his eyes.

 

“So this isn’t a sex thing?”

 

“No?”

 

“Then what’s the point?”

 

Grif shrugged.

 

“I’m fucking with Simmons.”

 

“So this _is_ a sex thing, but the only one getting laid is you.”

 

“Gross, man! I said fucking _with_ Simmons, not _fucking_ Simmons!”

 

“I heard you. I’m also not blind.”

 

Before Grif could retort Tucker turned around and started walking towards the Blue Base entrance.

 

“Good luck getting in Simmons’ pants. Be sure to put Jim Davis in the sex tape credits!” he called back with a wave.

 

Grif sighed and turned back towards the construction noises behind him.

 

Yep, the chucklefucks were _definitely_ building a pulpit, complete with an altar and baptismal font.

 

He suddenly decided that tomorrow’s meeting would be an ideal time to show Simmons that he was wrong about the congregation and then _never come back ever again_.

 

* * *

  

“Right this way. I think you’ll be very pleased with my congregation,” Grif grinned as he led Simmons through the red base entrance to the underground caves, walking backwards like a tour guide addressing the crowd.

 

“Uhhh Grif?” Simmons asked nervously.

 

“Now Simmons, I know what you’re thinking: do this many people really love the lazy orange feline enough to start a religion for it? The answer is absolutely yes.”

 

“Um, Grif, are you sure-”

 

“Now not all of them are gonna have the oath down to pat, but I like to think their presence is the truest indication of their fai-”

 

“GRIF!”

 

“WHAT?”

 

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?”

 

Grif turned around to see the pulpit, construction complete, and the entire cult gathered around it. Donut paced back and forth, delivering a sermon, and Sarge was bound to the altar: gagged, naked, and unconscious. Doc stood near the baptismal font, holding a torch. It was pretty clear what was about to go down.

 

“Well. Fuck,” Grif said, “I would have had you come tomorrow if I knew there’d be a sacrifice today.”

 

“You approved this?” Simmons hissed angrily, hiding behind a rock formation in fear.

 

“Fuck no! Don’t get me wrong, I’m super impressed they managed to catch Sarge by surprise enough to knock him unconscious, and I definitely approve of their victim choice in hindsight, but I sure as hell didn’t ask them to do this.”

 

“Then why the hell did they, Grif!”

 

“I dunno,” he shrugged, “Donut’s kinda the head priest around here. I just read the comics. But you gotta admit, sacrificing Sarge, they gotta love _Garfield_ , right?”

 

“Now’s not the time for the dumb bet, Grif! Help me save Sarge!”

 

Grif considered for a moment.

 

“Nah.”

 

“WHAT?”

 

“Yeah. Nah. Just decided I don’t actually care about Sarge that much. Not enough to die in battle for him, and certainly not enough to save him from a creepy cult.”

 

“But Grif! He’s our commanding officer!”

 

“Tell ya what, Simmons. You admit that I was right, and I’ll ask them to release Sarge.”

 

“What? No! I’m not gonna-“

 

“Why _hello_ guys!” an eerily happy voice chirps from behind them, “Here I was worried our sacred prophet would miss his reading! You’re just in time for the sacrifice!” Donut chuckled and it was terrifying only because he was so cheerful, “Sarge always did hate the color orange. Gotta kill the nonbelievers, right? And Simmons! I’m so glad you were finally able to come to a meeting!”

 

“Yeah,” Simmons squeaked, “Thank god.”

 

“Uh uh uh,” Donut tutted, “Thank _Garfield_ ,” he grinned a thousand-watt smile.

 

In that moment Grif understood true power, because Donut had it.

 

Lopez and Caboose “escorted” them to the pulpit, and Grif was shoved up to the podium to deliver the “scripture” reading.

 

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, “A reading from the book of Jim Davis:”

 

Simmons looked horrified.

 

“’Kay so panel one is Jon and Garfield in the kitchen, and Jon says ‘It’s time to clean the fridge, Garfield’ while Garfield’s thought bubble says ‘I’ll call a S.W.A.T. team.’ In the next panel- actually, you know what? Fuck this.”

 

“Griiiiiif…” Simmons eyed Lopez and Caboose nervously, the latter of which was tightening his grip on Simmons’ arm in confusion.

 

“Yeah look this whole cult thing was just a way to win a bet. I didn’t expect to, like, actually start a religion. So yeah, you can just go home now.”

 

No one moved, and Donut seemed to be speaking through gritted teeth as he placed a threatening hand on Grif’s arm.

 

“Grif, do not mess this up for me, I already ordered several genuine occult robes from Elizabeth Taylor.”

 

“Eh. Nah.”

 

With that Grif punched Donut in the temple. Hard. He fell to the floor in a heap and made no move to get up.

 

“Anyone else?”

 

Caboose raised his hand, saw no one else was doing so, and lowered it slowly.

 

“Cool. Leave.”

 

With that the crowd dispersed, muttering to each other as they left for their respective bases, leaving Simmons and Grif alone with the unconscious bodies of Donut and Sarge.

 

“How-?”

 

“Dude, 90% of this was Donut being extra.”

 

“But-“

 

“Simmons, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Now do you want Sarge to wake up in this cave with a gag in his mouth and you standing over him, or are you gonna help me drag him back to base? Because I will not hesitate to turn all of this around on you.”

 

Simmons clamped his mouth shut and hoisted the unconcious body of Sarge over his shoulder before heading towards the red base exit, pointedly avoiding even looking in the direction of his CO’s naked body on his armor.

 

“Grif, you win,” He said without looking back, “ _Garfield_ is the best Sunday comic. Now please never talk about this ever again.”

 

“Deal,” Grif grinned before grabbing Donut by the ankle and dragging him like a string of toy ducks behind him.

 

“Yo I’m starting to think that maybe this cult wasn’t about President Garfield after all…” Vic called after them as they walked away.

**Author's Note:**

> Simmons runs the popular “Garfield minus Garfield” blog.
> 
> Was this entire fic kind of an obscure taz/mbmbam reference? Maybe so. But also not really. I honestly had 0 inspiration and this was all I could think of. Forgive me.


End file.
